


In Our Bedroom After the War

by great_gospel



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, ByaHisa - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Ichiruki, Kuchiki Siblings, deliberate parallels, the world may never know??????, will i ever write rukia and byakuya actually interacting???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_gospel/pseuds/great_gospel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part one – all the living are dead, and the dead are all living // part two - we won, or we think we did</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. all the living are dead, and the dead are all living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1,128  
> Timeline/Spoilers: pre-series through post-Winter War; spoilers for the end of that arc  
> Notes: Heavily based off of the song of the same title by Stars.   
> From FFN

_all the living are dead, and the dead are all living_

.

The first day isn't the hardest. Neither is the second. It's every waking moment _after_ that is steeped in the immeasurable pain of her loss.

The nights are the worst. In daylight, he can bury himself in his work, make believe that she's off wandering the Rukongai again. But in the silence of the night, there's an ache deep in his bones and a longing throbbing through his veins. Every instance is like the slice of a blade to his skin, yet no battle wound can compare to this. Every moment evokes painful memory. A slight rustle of the bedsheets, a flash of white in his peripheral, and he starts. He turns his head fast enough to give himself whiplash. (Maybe a crick in his neck will be enough to distract from his relentless thoughts in the moonlight. He doubts it.)

The movements were caused by white curtains and wisps of wind. The servants had opened the windows to allow some fresh air into his dreary chambers. But, if only for a second, he had thought—

Nothing more than a product of his insomniac-induced madness, of course.

He slides back down until he's lying flat on his back again, sluggish and unrefined – two words one would never imagine could be used to describe Kuchiki Byakuya. But he's been this way ever since. Not to the public eye of course. He can't appear as if he is unfit to command, as if the silent revelry of his clan affects him in the slightest, as if his grief is in any way _real_. And it drains him so, but he is a Kuchiki, and so none will ever be privy to his deepest thoughts. But in the recesses of his mind, he is coming apart, thread by thread.

He turns on his side, facing what was once (what still is) her end of the futon. Spreading his hand across the cushion, he can almost pretend it's her. But the sheets are too cool and crisp, lacking in her warmth and softness. She would have shuddered at his touch, and bowed her head to hide the blush staining her cheeks. Even after five years of marriage, and twice that time spent courting, she was like a bashful maiden still.

Nights spent with her soft skin caressing his own wash over him. The proximity of her person and the absolutely adoration in her eyes never failed to light a fire within the normally passive noble lord. His stoic character gave way to passionate embraces and heated lovemaking, but only ever for her. Even the rush of battle couldn't compare to the feel of her bare skin pressed tight against him, every dip and curve complementing perfectly with his own lean form. Truly, she supplied a piece that had been missing from him. A small, starving girl from Inuzuri with sunken eyes that had seen too much was the one who completed him and brought fulfillment to his life. His younger self, who exuded superiority and arrogance, would have balked at the notion that he would never need someone to stand at his side. And he can hardly claim surprise at his clan's reaction to the peasant woman he brought home. But the vehemence of their unmasked hatred and venomous displays towards her kindled a white, hot fury within him. How could his own blood encourage such vile treatment upon one so undeserving? How could they so detest one whose very presence was calming for him, whose mere glance conveyed her love for him, whose lightest touch set him ablaze?

Her searing kisses conveyed the words she didn't think herself worthy enough to speak aloud.

He tries to imprint every memory of her into his soul, fearing that one day he will no longer be able to conjure up the exact cadence of her voice or recall just what shade of indigo her eyes were. Even the memory of her touch is waning. The feeling of being within her, that pinnacle of pleasure and sense of wholeness, he would have sworn was impossible to forget. But their bed has long since grown cold, and she took any inklings of warmth with her to her grave. In fact, her hand had been chilled when he held it last. It was spring the day she died, but she had never quite escaped the grasp of winter. And winter held her still; as it did Byakuya.

Can the dead haunt the dead? If so, she's doing a rather fine job of it, he thinks. His expanse of his grief has not diminished, even after half a century and more. His life is measured in when there was Hisana, and when there wasn't. The latter far outspans the former, and some nights, he wishes he could just shoo her spirit away, but the truth is that he'd much rather have her submerge him in misery than go on happily without her. Because happiness was Hisana, and that part of his life is over now. He doesn't think that it will ever come again. Masochism never appealed to him before, but now it is his closest confidante. His only one, in fact.

 **But at least the war is over.** Aizen has been put away, and his co-conspirators vanquished. There may not be a loving wife, but there is a sister to come home alive to. He owes her that much at least.

There was a Before Hisana and After Hisana, and now there was an After the War. It's the same, yet different. Different enough that it warrants something new, even if the bare facts remain unchanged. She is dead, and he is alone. But Rukia is the key element. She is his pride.

Tomorrow, he will take his first steps toward after. But in this moment, for the first time, bitter tears stream down his cheeks, cheeks she once loved to hold and pepper kisses on in the secrecy of their bedroom.

Tonight, he will welcome her phantom with open arms and pretend it's the heat of her body and not the chill of her absence pressed tight against his chest, leaving no room to draw a breath. In the morning, he'll wake but keep his eyes shut for a moment longer, if only to savour that short instance where he can never be sure. Sure if she is truly gone or if it's all in his head. Before his eyelids flutter open, and he becomes cognizant of the fact that in place of his beloved still slumbering is an empty space in the futon beside him. Inevitably, he will rouse from that place in between dreams and awake and face the reality of her demise. But for now, he will linger, just five minutes more, _please_.

.

_All the living are dead, and the dead are all living_

_The war is over and we are beginning..._

_Here it comes; here comes the first day!_

_Here it comes; here comes the first day!_

_It starts up in our bedroom after the war_


	2. we won, or we think we did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 840  
> Timeline/Spoilers: post-Winter War; spoilers for the end of that arc  
> Notes: Once again, props to Stars for writing such a beautiful song. I suggest you play it through while reading. :)  
> From FFN

_we won, or we think we did_

.

Rukia tries to push him from her thoughts, but he always was a persistent fellow, edging his way into her life and her problems, whether she wanted him there or not. Her worn memories did no justice to the real thing. Though his sullen attitude would suggest otherwise, he was as bright and vivid as the sun itself (and not just because of the hair), and wholly impossible to deny; at least in her mind's eye. Real life, on the other hand, carries on just fine without him. The afterworld rebuilds, and death’s messengers recuperate.

This is not the first time Soul Society has faced a grievous enemy such as Aizen, and it certainly won't be the last. But the next time it transpires, they won't have an orange-haired substitute wielding a colossal sword to fight their battles for them. They'll have to fend for themselves, as Rukia will inevitably have to face the darkness on her own.

She's become weak, relying on him as her crutch. Somehow, she does not find this supposed flaw unsavory, and rather welcomes it, in fact. To have an equal in mind and soul - is this how it feels?

Or how it _felt_.

She was the one that faded from his vision, right before his eyes, so why does it feel like he's the one who's vanished?

She feels his absence so keenly. It's in the expanse of her cold, empty bed chamber in the ancestral Kuchiki home, as opposed to the hustle and bustle of the Kurosaki household and the coziness of his (her) closet. It's the chill in her bones even when the drapes are drawn tight, and the hollow in her soul she hasn't felt since Sode no Shirayuki left her side.

Can the living haunt the dead? If anyone could manage it, she knows it would be Ichigo. That fool had no regard for proprietary or for natural, _human_ boundaries.

For once, she wishes that were still the case. That he could overcome the pure _humanness_ of losing his shinigami powers and spiritual force, and defy the odds for her once more. She’s selfish that way, truly incorrigible to wish him to sacrifice his normal life for her sake again. _(Where did all of these human emotions come pouring out from, Kuchiki Rukia? You are a shinigami, a soldier. Never forget.)_

No, he has already done so much. And he was just a boy still, in the eyes of one over a century old, no matter that he had matured alarmingly fast due to necessity. The guilt over tearing him from his real (human) life sits in the pit of her stomach, burgeoning. This inner conflict will probably kill her, she thinks. And wouldn't her clan have a field day at that? Both Rukongai street urchins that had been adopted into the Kuchiki household killed by their own devices and without any of them having to stain their pretty, little, noble fingers.

 **But at least the war is over.** If she has gained nothing else from this ordeal (though she is drenched in losses), the recognition from and renewed relationship with her brother is almost worth it. Almost. And his incredible revelations – a sister _(a sister!)_ and a trail of sidestepped laws, all for the love he bore her.

Perhaps they could commiserate over lost lovers (or almost lovers) in some warped semblance of sibling bonding. Kuchikis always did do things their own way, after all. (And she was a Kuchiki through and through, if Byakuya had anything to say about it.) Her brother was already an excellent example of breaking from traditional expectations. The two of them also grieved in similar ways, silently brooding in solitary while acting as if nothing is amiss in front of the world.

But she knows _he_ knows she is hurting. Just as she now knows that his once chilly gazes were a barrier put up to shield his already injured heart from further assault. They say that the eyes are a window into the soul, after all. She's not quite sure who 'they' are, though. Human textbooks were so very vague. She'll have to ask Ichigo about it next time she sees—

Oh.

Right.

_"Even if you can't see me, I can still see you."_

_"That doesn't make me feel better at all!"_

It doesn't make her feel any better either. Trust her. To not feel his intense gaze raking over her form, to not sense his spiritual pressure gently reaching out for hers, to not have him at her side in the most crucial moments is ineffably painful. Even a spirit as strong as hers must reach a breaking point.

But she's crumbled before, and always risen up from the shambles, though the feel of her very soul being torn apart seam by seam is rather new. If this was winning a war, she couldn’t even fathom what losing would have been like. She’s never felt a victory so hollow as this.

But, even for the dead, life must go on.

.

.

.

.

.

_We won, or we think we did_

_When you went away, you were just a kid_

_And if you lost it all, and you lost it,_

_We will still be there when the war is over_

_Lift your head, and look out the window_

_Stay that way for the rest of the day and watch the time go_


End file.
